Doppelganger

So I meet this guy about my age, with two young children, who has a career very, very similar to mine: Lots of writing and producing and strategizing for a big non-profit. We both try to find meaning and purpose pursuing art and integrity in a commercial world. We fight the uninterested, the unenthused and the unimaginative. I could tell by talking to him that we both struggle with our internal periscopes, poked up from the depths of practical compliance into creative air much easier to view than to breach. We live in the same environment, physically and metaphorically. I probably have more in common with this person than anyone I’ve ever met.

I couldn’t stand the guy. It is interesting to meet someone so like you and not like them. I didn’t hate him. There was no revulsion. But if I never see him again, that would be cool. He bugged me and I’m not entirely certain why.

He had more hair than me. That might be it.

Luckily, I know he won’t read this. He’s too self-involved. I know that because I can’t remember his name. Tim? Tom? Tucker?

Whatever.